


Oakland

by gloss



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Body Horror, Doomed Timeline, F/M, Fisting, Sibling Incest, pseudo-bestiality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 02:37:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's a bird, she's a ghost, together they subsist.</p><p>For the HSWC, bonus round #1: "Every day it's the same, drink, shoot, write, write, shoot, drink. Like a hamster on a wheel, around and around we go. You ever do that? Keep going when it serves absolutely no purpose?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oakland

He wasn't supposed to come back.

Then again (and again, and again, and again, times forever), she wasn't supposed to still be here. There should be no here here.

Yet here she remains, not a witch but a scrap of dead magic. Her voice raspy from disuse, her hair grown longer, messier. The curls twist back on themselves now, tighten to tiny nubs, the seed of dread(s), a piece of wordplay she likes very much.

He wouldn't appreciate it, of course. He always did prefer the half- or single entendre, the easy elaboration of one colloquial image toward absurd conclusions.

What they share(d) is a compulsion to talk past the other, to engage in something less like dialogue and quite a bit more like soliloquy. 

"Hey," he says. He is magnificent, throbbing with color, blazing orange, burning crimson. She has been alone in this emptying world so long that she forgot how _bright_ color can be. How it can nearly steam, how it shudders behind your lids when you blink.

She nods. _You came back_ , she doesn't say. _You weren't supposed to come back._

"So. I'm a bird now," he adds. His voice is unchanged, soft, sweeter than you might ever have expected from online chats. He twists around as she circles him, intent, studious. "You? Sup?"

She runs her index finger down his chest. His eyes flutter closed. The last time she did this, his skin was clammy, his breath caught in his throat, his nipples went hard. 

He doesn't have to breathe any longer. Her fingernail traces the wound in his abdomen, laps up orange goo, smears it back into the pliant surface. 

He clears his throat; Rose ignores him. She's a ghost, someone else's memory, afterimpression and dream forgotten by breakfast.

The last time they did this, he came in his pants and she never did. They were children then, clinging together, orphans of the storm, sheltering in each other's sweat and swallowing tears down their parched throats.

Now they are here again, still, evermore, bird and ghost. She slips her fist through the hole in his torso. Code and tissue part around her, squelch, and his head falls back, hips thrusting even as his wings beat and lift slightly. Inside, he's neither warm nor cold, just gelatinous, just _there_. His edges (softer now) define her just as they always have. 

She is found where no one is. 

She tips her forehead onto his arm and works her hand in and out, fucking him faster, jittery-stuttery.

"Yeah," he says against her hair, "missed you, too."

 

[end]


End file.
